| More fun than an open-casket funeral (but not by much), it's... Dani's Inferno Pact Twenty-Five Greetings from all nice conscentric circles of Hell, ten if you include, the M25 (Beelzebub himself presiding over the Brentford turn-off). Time once again to pull my insides outside my mouth and decorate these wipe-free pages with astral vomit, pith and nails, lactiferous outbursts and ectoplasm wrung from a soul sick with -fuck, cunt, shit-Tourette's Syndrome. Fuck. So welcome scum, and welcome to the column that pushes boundaries of shitdom to the very blink of feasibility, siphons it through the hairline cracks in sanity and then drops the whole steaming cess into the tiny manipulative hand of children everywhere. Bow then (and while you're down there...), before the dark and ever shifting mirror that is the Inferno. Pray Enter... This past month-trespassing both March and April like some myxomatosed Easter Bunny - has had its fair share of ups and downs (NB - must oil that squeaking bedspring). The worst has been payment for three years' income tax to the parasitic Inland Revenue, which saw the small fortune I'd amassed for a boob job (just an inconspicuous one sewn on somewhere to toy with in privacy) whittled down from one handful to another, this time to the price in pence of a Big Mac, which ironically (and allegedly) is also made with silicone. As well as all the other appendages some witless fucks require inflating - lips, cheeks, teats and eyelids (whereas I would rather settle for my bank account). There was also anothe late night excursion to A&E (that's accident and emergency you sick puppies) when baby Luna undertook her bi-monthly plummet on the head, though it was third time unlucky - she didn't get a lollypop despite having to undergo another X-ray to see if, like her father, she actually possesses a brain at all. Not the most thrilling of nights out; hours slouched abut staring at sick and injured people might be your idea of entertainment, but I'd rushed out without a packed lunch. Still, compensation was accrued via a bout of about 13-month-old (unlucky for mum) madness, when Luna decided to destroy the children's waiting room, much to the horror of parents and their brats alike, and the increasingly hard-to-stifle amusement of myself and Toni, who repeatedly had to stop her wadding over to a child nearly thrice her age and lobbing plastic bricks at his face. Oh the wondrous joys of parenthood! On the plus side, this month did bless me with two rather biblical revelations. Firstly (and obviously by the grace of God because my father used to know him), I passed my driving test with flying colours (rather than flying pedestrians), a feat that has opened up a whole new chapter in my life, one that is entitled 'Car Keys', and how to snatch them from my girlfriend's purse! No, she hasn't taken to secreting them between her legs to foil me, though it would make for an interesting discourse should I have to retrieve them without her knowledge. It's just that she needs the car on a daily basis for work etc, and I just wanna burn rubber baby! And until I buy another Munster mobile, completion for its use will be stiff and usually resulting in a toss-off, (I told you she was good at persuasion...) Armed with ten years' hindsight, I would've learnt to drive a damn sight quicker had I become as dependant on it as I undoubtedly am now. Whereas before, if anything was required of the village shops (for example-shouls we need candles, bread, a replacement child and so on), I'd probably walk, jog -hell even unicycle- the 50 or so yards. Not so now. At the slightest sniff of an opening (oo-er!) to use the car, the tan-backed driving gloves are ferreted out, the CD player's put in, the seat and mirror are adjusted (I still drive like Mr. Magoo) and finally after edging out of the parking space smaller than the actual car itself, I'm off...only to repeat the procedure 30 seconds later down the road parked outside the Co-op. I can't help it-the driving bug has bitten a B-road right up my inside leg and grabbed me firmly by the short and curlies. The car is now an extension of my psyche. It's independence, it's freedom, it's ripping from the stereo thinking I'm mean motherfucking Nigel Schumacher. And what's a handbrake turn like at 60? In short I'm addicted and I'm telling you (although legally only if you're old enough to believe me), smack would be safer. Anyroad... The second wonder was that our year-long search pimping estate agents for a new home was over when we found a house in our favour and price range. the downside is (we are due to sign papers soon and seeing as my soul already belongs to another, I have to claim one on tick...) that we'll be moving from my beloved countryside to the smoke. The plus side is that the new house is by far big enough to accommodate the rollerdisks I've long since hankered for and the sanctuary for diabetic Shetland ponies that sensibility just demands I establish (proving they graze in a room 13x12). Finally, some foreplay for the Cradle Of Fear film I touch upon briefly last month from the knackered biro of slaughter-auteur Alex Chandon: "Cradle Of Fear is surprisingly enough, a twisted, deliriously sick 'n' sexy anthology horror film. Five tales of urban terror. A nightmarish tapestry of monsters and demons, killers and sadists, sex and lots fo wet, red violence filmed in evil". Shooting begins by the time the next column is milked onto paper, so maybe I'll have something decent to write about for a change. Probably not...Still, if it's any consolation, at least I sitll get paid for this crap, but only bad pennies and a nudey mag from the hairy '70s - still it's a living! Your friend, Dani |